


Bury Them Fast

by ceresilupin



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Slavery, PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-02
Updated: 2015-03-02
Packaged: 2018-03-15 22:16:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3464069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceresilupin/pseuds/ceresilupin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fill for a kink meme prompt about Cole and his trauma. The Inquisitor takes Cole on a mission to the Fallow Mire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bury Them Fast

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for referenced child abuse and slavery, as well as Cole's basket full of issues.
> 
> Original prompt can be found [here](http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/13429.html?thread=51527285#t51527285). Title is from 'Daisy' by Brand New, which you can listen to [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cwx8M_7hcRE).

It had barely been a week since the confrontation in Therinfal’s Redoubt. Maxwell had been politely ordered to take it easy by no less than all four of the fledgling Inquisition’s leaders (Cassandra’s order had definitely been the scariest, not that it had cowed him for long). His odd assortment of new friends had taken that as their cue to chime in – first was Varric, whose concern was mingled with wry humor; then the Iron Bull, who was visibly disturbed at the thought of a demon having been in his head and insisted that he rest for all of their sakes.

Madame Vivienne was less concerned but harder to argue with, all but patting him on the head and ushering him along like a recalcitrant child. Solas had accepted his insistence that he was fine with such a bland non-expression that Maxwell had fled, certain he was laughing on the inside. And then there was Sera, who poked him with a fork for an hour when he was trying to have a drink, ‘trying to get the demon to come out’ she said, until he gave up and left. Even Blackwall, who he could usually rely on to back him up, had greeted his pronouncement of _being just fine_ with lifted eyebrows and a drawled, “Yeah . . . of course you are, Herald.” And then he’d laughed as Maxwell stomped away.

The only one who didn’t treat him like an invalid was the strange Cole. He seemed to understand that Maxwell was restless, his skin ill-fitting, and slouched along at his side as he roamed Haven. Every so often, they would pause for Cole to stop and linger, staring at something or someone with wide eyes.

They passed Varric, scribbling furiously in his tent. Maxwell thought about stopping to say hi, but Cole shook his head. “He’s working?”

“Writing.” Cole watched Varric as they passed. “It’s very hard. They have their own voices, and they don’t stay put. Like wriggly kittens. I tried to listen, but it doesn’t make sense yet. He has to write them down first, and then they come alive.”

“Huh,” Maxwell said, amused.

“I like the stories,” Cole said, tone suddenly light, almost airy.

Maxwell smiled. “Me, too,” he admitted. “I don’t suppose you know what’s going to happen next? The last one was kind of a cliffhanger.”

“I’m not supposed to tell,” Cole said mysteriously.

After that, it was Seggrit, arguing again with one of Mother Giselle’s lay sisters. Maxwell waited patiently as Cole hovered nearby, listening both with ears and mind. He wondered if Cole would intervene.

Instead, he turned his head slightly. “He doesn’t want to help,” the young man said.

Maxwell turned to lean against a nearby fence. The two of them were stationed off the main path, a constant stream of soldiers, message runners, and civilians flooding between them and the merchant’s table. Seggrit and the Chantry sister took no notice of them.

“It seems that way,” he said, looking up into his face – at least, what he could see if it. The kid went to great lengths to avoid eye contact, had even when they’d been fighting a demon together in Maxwell’s head. “But he’ll usually does end up helping, in the end. He’s not so bad.”

“No,” Cole corrects. In someone else, the tone would have been inflected with – something. Sternness, contrariness, frustration, even disgust. From Cole, it is toneless, but oddly plaintive. As if the question is not whether Maxwell will believe him, but whether Maxwell will hear him at all.

“He doesn’t want to help,” Cole explains, looking back at Seggrit. “He’s angry inside. Like a clenched fist. Resentful, reluctant, rancorous, hate her, hate her stupid pleading eyes, hate her stupid plaintive whine. Want to punch that stuck-up bitch in her face, give her something to complain about.”

Maxwell started at the sound of him cursing. “Cole!”

“What?” Cole turned back to him, equally startled by his exclamation, until he understood. “It’s what he’s thinking,” he said defensively.

“All right, well.” Maxwell swiped a hand over his head, not sure how to respond to that. “It’s just . . . strange when you do that.”

He could feel Cole looking at him, could just glimpse the flicker of his eyes, mobile in his shadowed face. “Because it’s me,” he said, “and not me, not my voice but in my voice?”

“Yeah, that,” Maxwell said. “And, well. It’s just disturbing, all right?”

Cole turned away from him, watching Seggrit again. The merchant was watching the Chantry sister talk and gesture, his arms crossed over his chest, expression dark and resentful. _Like a clenched fist,_ Cole had said, and now that he had, Maxwell couldn’t help but see it.

“I’ll keep an eye on him,” Maxwell promised, sighing. “And I’ll talk to the quartermaster, make sure Mother Giselle gets what she needs.”

“Yes,” Cole murmured. He stepped back, turning his back on Seggrit, and Maxwell took the hint, pushing off his post. “That is best. That will help.” He was silent as they began walking again, thoughtful. “Thank you,” he finally added.

~

Maxwell’s enforced vacation was brought to an end by the messenger bird he saw winging through camp. He and Cole paused to watch it pass, and then Cole nodded to him and slipped away without a word. Alone, Maxwell went to Leliana’s tent and hovered, uncertain of his welcome.

It was crowded with scouts. They eyed him curiously, and he watched them covertly in return. Were they _spy_ spies, like the ones in Varric’s novels, who consorted with nobles and then donned black silks, sneaking about on rooftops? Or were they scouts, like Harding? He probably wasn’t supposed to be able to tell the difference. They wouldn’t be very good at their jobs if he could.

What did they think of him? He felt like a figurehead, most of the time. _Herald, go here and do this,_ Leliana would tell him, _and don’t forget to do something else,_ Cullen would add. _And remember to be whatever,_ Josephine would finish. And then they would return to their discussion, and Cassandra would march him outside and shadow him as he did exactly . . . whatever it was he’d been told to do.

Some people seemed to think he was in charge. Or at least, that he was one of the people in charge. The refugees in the Hinterlands certainly had. Maxwell wasn’t so sure; he’d made the decision about the Templars, but everyone – even Cullen, who was usually pretty genial – gave him shit for it afterwards. And he hadn’t been invited to any War Room meetings since.

“Well, this is unsettling,” Leliana finally said, looking up from the missive. “I’ll need to – ah, Herald. I didn’t see you there. What can I do for you?”

And how was he supposed to respond to that? When he was being treated him like a visitor, a guest within a movement that was supposed to be partially his? Uncomfortable, he nodded to the letter in her hand. “I came to see what the message was,” he admitted.

Leliana’s perfectly arched brows lifted. “You,” she reminded him sternly, with a hint of amusement, “are supposed to be resting. But I suppose it can’t hurt to know. Amelya?” A messenger ducked inside at Leliana’s call. “Please summon Commander Cullen and Ambassador Montiliyet to the War Room. I have bad news for them.”

“Right away, ma’am!” the messenger said, and galloped off.

Leliana glided forward, and to Maxwell’s surprise, deposited the letter into his hands. “As you were,” she said to her men, and guided him to the War Room as he read.

~

“I’d never even heard of the Fallow Mire, before this mission,” Maxwell admitted.

If he wanted to impress anyone, admitting to his ignorance probably wasn’t the best idea. Not to mention, such an admission carried with it the reminder of his time in the Circle, and his status as a mage. But there was no use hiding anything from Cole, he’d found; the younger man could hear thoughts without even trying, and he had a tendency to talk to himself, which meant everyone nearby could hear them, too. Anyway, the only people around were the Iron Bull, Solas, and Varric, who he wasn’t going to be impressing anytime soon. They knew him too well.

“I don’t get the feeling that you were missing out on anything nice,” Varric said, peering out from their canopy. They were on the edge of camp, performing one last weapon and armor check before heading out. Not to mention, making sure their weather-gear was secure.

The Bull grunted. “You weren’t,” he promised. “Fought a sortie here once. The mud is like, well.” He pulled a face, thinking it over and trying to come up with a good comparison. “You ever stepped in a big pile of nug shit?”

“I cannot say I have,” Solas said, amused and a bit perturbed.

“No,” Cole said slowly, wide-eyed.

“Yeah,” Varric sighed. Everyone stared at him, even the Bull. “Kirkwall,” he reminded them all. “It wasn’t Hightown silks and wyvern hunts all the time, you know. Actually, it was almost never Hightown silks _or_ wyvern hunts . . . mostly it was just piles of nug shit.”

“I haven’t either,” Maxwell chimed in. “Er. Stepped in it, that is.”

“Well,” the Bull rumbled, canted his head back-and-forth in thought. “So, stepping into the Fallow Mire is like stepping in the shit, right? Kind of warm, flies everywhere, smells like a . . . well, like a giant pile of shit, really. . . .”

“I can see why you’re not the storyteller of the group,” Varric cracked.

“Uh-huh,” Maxwell urged the Bull to continue, even as he felt his brow wrinkling. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know where this was going. Or if it was going to be worth the journey to get there.

“Can it, shorty. Anyway, you step in the shit, you sink up to your knees – might be a bit higher than that for some of you, now that I think of it. Anyway, after some cussing, you manage to yank your other foot free. And then guess what happens?”

“I am not at all certain that I want to know,” Solas said, even as he stared at the Bull in fascination. Cole, blinking in earnest confusion, was following along with the eager innocence of a spring pup.

“You yank your foot free,” the Bull demonstrated, “and then more shit floods in! And then you put your foot down, and guess what you put it in?”

“The suspense is killing me,” Varric intoned.

“More shit!” the Bull declared.

“Eurgh,” Maxwell said.

“Agreed,” Solas said.

“Do we _have_ to go here?” Cole wanted to know. “Can we go around? I don’t want to step in . . . any of that. Whatever it is.”

“That’s up to our fearless leader,” the Bull said, and everyone turned to Maxwell with assorted degrees of hopefulness. Well, actually, the hopefulness was all Cole: Varric and Solas just looked sardonic and like they were enjoying his misery. He scowled at the Bull and was greeted with a lopsided grin that said he knew _exactly_ what he’d done, and that he was welcome.

“We’re doing it for the soldiers,” Maxwell reminded them mock-sternly, and after a moment’s thought, decided that he would be more comfortable holding his staff than carrying it on his back. Just in case of . . . unexpected piles of animal waste. Or something. “Everyone ready to go?”

Thedas’ least enthusiastic assent was his answer. Helplessly amused, Maxwell gestured. “Onward.”

~

“Boss,” the Bull panted, “I made a mistake. This place is much, much worse than I remember. I almost miss the nug shit, I really do.”

Maxwell peered over their impromptu barricade, only to be knocked in the head by one of Bianca’s arms as Varric rested it on top. The dwarf had to stand on a crate to reach, but it was past the time for teasing.

“Were the walking dead here, when you visited last?” Solas wanted to know. He adjusted the hems of his sleeves, seemingly cool as a cucumber, provided that you paid no attention to the gleam of sweat on his forehead and the tension in his jaw. Maxwell, too, felt an overexertion headache coming on, and hoped that their refuge would buy them enough time to recuperate.

“Nope,” the Bull grunted. “That’s all new.”

“Hm.” His attention diverted, Solas began exploring the ruined cabin. It had been boarded up before the Bull had taken down the door and bellowed for them to hurry, Varric walking backwards as he fired bolt after bolt, Solas throwing up a few final barriers before turning his back on the horde and fleeing. Maxwell, busy setting everything on fire, had been the last inside, waiting for the limping Cole to pass him to safety.

Maxwell had half-expected to find corpses barricaded inside, but the one-room shack was clear of bodies. A set of bunk-beds, the mattresses rotted, were against one wall; a larger bed, blocked off by a mildewed curtain, was on the other. Various shelves and tables held knickknacks, silverware, and plates, but no food. A trunk of ruined clothes and some jewelry was in one corner. Apparently, the family that had lived here had barricaded the place to protect their valuables, not their lives.

Maxwell was grateful. He’d seen enough corpses for one day.

“Never get over how they move,” Varric confided under his breath. Bianca spoke, and something died with a gurgling scream. “Like the muscles are there, but . . . not. Maker, this place is a dump.”

“Worse than Kirkwall?” the Bull asked.

Varric smirked. “File that under ‘things I never thought I’d agree to, but just did’.” His mood turned briefly grim. “Lot of stuff in that file, these days.”

Maxwell left them to their banter, going to check on Cole. Upon entering the shack, while the others were still building the barricade, he’d glanced around once before hunching his shoulders and limping to sit by the cold fireplace, his back to the wall.

Solas had ignited the hearth, before investigating his leg and pronouncing the injury serious, but not critical. He’d be fine with a few healing potions and some rest. He’d also coaxed Cole away from the cold wall, convincing him to sit in front of the fire and start warming up. Even after some time in front of the fire, he looked chilled, and glanced frequently over his shoulder, as if there was something standing over his shoulder, or bearing down on him from across the room.

Troubled, Maxwell touched his arm, crouching at his side. Cole hunched in on himself further, but didn’t move away from the touch. “I don’t like this place,” he mumbled.

In a position like this, where Maxwell towered over him, it was easy to forget that Cole was a grown man. When they were walking about, either on a mission or at Haven, Maxwell had to look up to see the younger man’s face. He was as skinny as the scarecrows he resembled, his voice was boyish, and his manner one of earnest confusion, but he _was_ an adult. Young, but grown.

Now, he looked like a child. Maxwell had only been around a handful of youngsters in the Circle, but the sight brought out his softer instincts. He squeezed the kid’s shoulder through the leather of his armored jacket. “Anything in particular that’s bothering you?” he asked.

Cole’s hat was at his side, drying, his soaked hair slicked back. His huge, sightless-seeming eyes roved around restlessly, brow pinching in distress. Maxwell could feel himself frowning in sympathy. “Cole?”

“Can’t you feel it?” Cole pleaded. “For a while, she was free, she could sleep in the bed and dance across the floor, but then . . . it was so cold. So cold, so cold, but her skin was burning. Nothing was familiar. Stretched faces like monsters – are they real? Have they returned? Or are they demons? Andraste, please help me, I want to go home. I just want to go home. It would be so nice to just _go home_. . . .” He blinked rapidly, clearly on the verge of tears.

By the door, Varric and the Bull had fallen silent, plainly overhearing. Maxwell glanced around for Solas, who had a knack for talking to Cole, but the elven man was on the other side of the room and frowning at the floor. Not listening? Lost in thought?

Uncertain of what else to do, Maxwell wrapped the younger man in a careful hug. He burned with embarrassment as he felt the Bull and Varric watching him, but pushed it aside; Cole was important, now. Not the fear of being judged.

“I don’t like this place,” Cole whispered into his shoulder.

Maxwell took a deep breath, frowning as he tried to come up with a plan. Could they move on? If they pushed through the undead gathered outside, they could make it to the other signal fire. That would necessitate another fight, but once it was lit, they would have a reprieve. They would be exposed to the elements, certainly, but there would be no more corpses. . . .

But with Cole injured, Varric running low on bolts, and himself and Solas on the verge of exhaustion, they might not survive both fights. A proper military leader – like Cullen, or Cassandra, or Leliana, the _real_ leaders of the Inquisition – would know what to do. They could turn the situation to their advantage. They would take the risk of losing one of their men.

Maxwell couldn’t. He just couldn’t. Just the thought turned his blood cold. No one was expendable to him.

On the other hand, they could also fall back. The last signal fire had been five miles back, a long journey in the swamp. They would be pursued by the undead, but if they fled determinedly enough, they could evade them. Of course, they would still be exposed to the elements for the rest of the night, and Varric would not be able to resupply his crossbow. Solas and Maxwell would be hard-pressed to recover their strength in such conditions, and the next day, they would be forced to push forward again, re-taking the territory they had surrendered the night before. . . .

Cole was a member of the team. Staying here, if it was painful or distressing for him, wasn’t right. Not to mention that if he sensed something otherworldly – something like a demon – it was dangerous for all of them. But their only other options were just as bad.

Solas turned suddenly, away from whatever he had been inspecting, and came to kneel on Cole’s other side. Varric and the Bull struck up a quiet conversation, their low voices a soothing rumble.

“Cole,” Solas coaxed, gripping his shoulder. “Look at me, please.”

Cole shook his head, his face still pressed into Maxwell’s shoulder. The metal of his war robes must be digging into his skin, Maxwell reflected. Absently, he stroked back the tangled wet hair, trying to urge Cole to let up and do as Solas asked.

“Cole,” Solas repeated calmly. “I know this is difficult for you. I need you to trust me. Look at me, please.”

Reluctantly, Cole obeyed. Maxwell kept a light hand on his back as the younger man shifted, staring down at Solas’s muddy feet and legs for a long moment. The elven man waited patiently, eyes clear and bright, soft with sympathy, until finally Cole mustered the courage or strength to look up.

Solas blinked slowly, his thoughtful, narrow gaze slanting over Cole’s face, seeking . . . something. Maxwell wished he knew what was going on. Eventually, Solas sighed, glancing over his shoulder at his previous position, and then shook his head.

“It’s long past,” he said softly. This was not for Maxwell’s ears, which explained why it made no sense; Maxwell resisted the urge to demand an explanation anyway. “There is nothing we can do now, but survive, and make sure it does not happen again.”

Cole rocked back and forth, curling in on himself again. “You can try,” he said, an unusual note of bitter laughter in his voice. “It always does anyway.”

“Not always,” Solas soothed, unperturbed. “One day, it will happen for the last time. And then never again.”

Cole’s head flew up. “How can you think that!” he snarled, savage in his distress. Maxwell jumped, but didn’t yank away. _I am not afraid of Cole,_ he reminded himself sternly. _I trust him. Cole has always been my friend._ “How can you _know?_ ” he cried, voice cracking, and wrapped his arms around his knees, breaking away from Maxwell’s touch.

Uncertain, uneasy, Maxwell let his hand fall. He tried not to glare at Solas, but he wasn’t sure if he succeeded.

“Hope, is all,” Solas said. He hadn’t batted an eye at Cole’s angry exclamations, even as Maxwell flinched. His voice was soft, full of sadness and long, lonely understanding. “That alone which can hold back despair.”

Cole murmured something into the refuge of his knees, but Solas’s words seemed familiar to him, or at least soothing. His shoulders rose and fell as he took careful, deep breaths, and while he did not lift his head and begin acting like himself again, neither did he seem as distressed.

Seemingly satisfied, Solas released Cole’s shoulder at last. “We should rest now,” he said to the rest of the group. Varric and the Bull listened from the doorway. “The night will past quickly with sleep, and we all need to recover our strength.”

Varric, already whittling new bolts, nodded agreement. “Among other things.”

Solas looked to Maxwell, and he realized he was waiting for him to make a decision. “We’ll set out in the morning,” he said, hoping he sounded commanding. “Varric, Bull, are you okay with the first watch?”

“Sure thing, Boss.” At least the Bull was cheerful, a solid bulwark against all danger, emotional or otherwise. Varric nodded as well, troubled gaze passing over Cole’s bowed head and Solas’ unreadable expression.

“We should stay on this side of the room,” Solas said, without explanation, and began rolling out his bedroll. He was asleep within moments of closing his eyes.

Would Cole rest, hunched as he was? Could he? It had to be hard on his injured leg. But surely forcing him to uncurl would cause him further distress; better to trust that he knew what he needed. Slowly, Maxwell laid out his own bedding, which wasn’t as wet as he’d feared. Before he settled down for sleep, he shifted about to touch the younger man’s bony hand. “Cole?” he said quietly.

One blue eye peeked out at him from a mess of blond hair.

“Do you need anything? Are you comfortable?”

Cole shook his head. What did that mean? No, he didn’t need anything, no he wasn’t comfortable . . . ? Maybe both. Maxwell stayed at his side for a while longer, but couldn’t think of anything to say that would help, especially when he didn’t really know what was going on.

Finally, with one pat, Maxwell released his hand. “I’m,” he started awkwardly, hoping the others weren’t eavesdropping but knowing they probably were. He cleared his throat. “We’re all here, if you need anything. Wake me up if you need to. All right?” He winced internally; what a poor apology that made. _I’m sorry. I’m sorry I can’t take you from here._ He willed Cole to hear, to understand that he was sincere.

Cole nodded and shifted, hiding his face again.

Sighing, Maxwell laid down for sleep. Stretching out and closing his eyes was heavenly, even as his guilt and worry over Cole made his stomach churn. From the corner of his eye, he saw Cole’s hand tighten, as if closing around the memory of his touch.

“Thank you,” he thought he heard him say, as he drifted into sleep.

~

The next morning dawned on a sleepy and irritable group, as usual. Most of the corpses had wandered away overnight, although Maxwell knew it was only a matter of time before they returned. After some planning with Solas and the Bull, he determined that they would make a strong push for the next signal fire, hopefully before the undead amassed in force. At least there was some weak sunlight to help them along.

Cole was the first to leave their shelter, fast and silent on his healed leg, looking around at everything except his companions. The Iron Bull and Solas followed him out, stretching sore limbs and surveilling their surroundings in the light of day.

Still in the darkened cabin, Maxwell donned his staff and glanced at Varric, wondering if he would leave first. Instead, he caught the dwarf glancing at him, equally covert. As if Varric, like Cole, had the ability to read minds, he glanced over at the corner of the room, where Solas had been standing the night before.

The side of the room he had told them to avoid.

Varric looked back at him, eyebrows raised.

Maxwell had to admit he was curious. He didn’t want to invade Cole’s privacy, and whatever he had sensed had clearly disturbed him. On the other hand, he suspected Cole would tell him if he asked . . . assuming he could work up the nerve to distress him by inquiring. Not to mention, Cullen and Cassandra would grill him about the incident when he returned, their natural suspicion fueled by Cole’s oddities. If they found out he’d passed up an opportunity to gather more information. . . .

No doubt they would insist it was his responsibility, as the Herald, to know what had disturbed one of his companions. And if there was something dangerous lurking, it should be destroyed, lest it harm someone else.

“I don’t know what it is they sensed,” Maxwell admitted, keeping his voice low. “It’s nothing that I can feel, at least.”

“Yeah, me either,” Varric agreed. He slung Bianca over his shoulder and went to inspect the forbidden corner. With a tense glance at the doorway, Maxwell followed. “For one thing, this is a smuggler’s trap door. If Solas was having trouble finding it, he should have asked me.” Varric chuckled briefly, but darkly.

Maxwell was impressed. “I don’t see anything.”

“You’re not supposed to,” Varric reminded him.

“So, you think they were smugglers?” Maxwell tried to recall Cole’s comments from the night before – something about a girl, dancing across the room? And then the faces of demons, and wanting to go home. . . . His heart twinged in sympathetic pain. “That doesn’t really fit what Cole said.”

“No. You’re right.” Varric scuffed his foot over the floor, testing for something. When he found it, there was a small click and a piece of the floor popped up. Maxwell stepped forward, alert with curiosity—

Only to recoil as Varric kicked the panel open.

“Shit!” he blurted, covering his nose. The trapdoor, somehow, had kept the smell of death from spreading, but once it was open, the secret was out. Varric, too, covered his face, but his expression was heavy with sorrow, not shock.

Maxwell watched, panting through his mouth, as Varric knelt to inspect the body. They had been small, whoever they were. They hadn’t crawled into the storage space just to die; there was a blanket there, a pile of ragged clothes, and a few shiny stones and dried flowers. A child’s keepsakes? Horribly likely, given the desiccated corpse’s size. They must have lived there. But why, when there was space available?

“She was an elf,” Varric finally decided. “Probably about eight or nine.”

Maxwell stared at him. If Varric was able to identify to identify corpses so readily, he really had to wonder what Kirkwall had been like. Gut churning, Maxwell watched as he straightened, casting one last, sorrowful look over the little body, before lowering the hatch. He didn’t seal it.

Should they bury the body? Probably not; they didn’t have the time, or the tools. Now that she had been uncovered, would she raise like the rest? Maxwell shuddered at the thought. Poor thing. Poor little thing.

And then something in his brain clicked. _She._ This was who Cole had been talking about. _For a while, she was free, she could sleep in the bed and dance across the floor. . . ._

Varric gathered the last of his kit, and then waited in the doorway for Maxwell to follow. Slowly, he checked the room one last time, making sure nothing had been left behind, and then glanced back at the trapdoor. “I don’t understand.”

Varric shook his head. “She was probably a slave,” he said simply. “Left here by the family when they fled. With the rest of the property.” This last was a sneer, his eyes – usually so warm – gone cold and hard.

“I . . . see. But why . . . why keep her in there? There was room available, they could have. . . .” His words failed him.

“Kid,” Varric said kindly. “She was a slave. You don’t let the slaves sit at the table and sleep in a bed with the children, do you? They had to make sure she knew her place. And then, when they were running, she was just an extra mouth to feed.” Varric turned his back on the small corner, which had acquired damp, dim gleam, maybe just in Maxwell’s mind. “If she fell ill after they sealed the cabin, she must have had the plague already, and so did they. They’re dead, too. Small satisfaction.” He snorted.

Maxwell still didn’t understand. He wished he hadn’t looked. If Cole had sensed all of that, it was no wonder he’d been so upset. Maxwell longed to turn back time and replay the evening; they never should have stayed in the place. But what good would fleeing have done? Solas and Cole had known, and Varric had clearly suspected. The Bull, too, had probably guessed. The subterfuge had been to protect _him_ – him, the Herald, the sheltered Circle mage.

Varric was waiting, clearly longing for escape, but unwilling to leave him behind. Head bowed, Maxwell left the small room behind.

~

Once they were outside, their course set and the distant beacon identified, Maxwell stopped and looked up. The sky was overcast, but not due to rain for a while longer. Without explaining, he gestured the others back, and they obeyed, watchful but quiet.

Only Cole crept closer, waiting a step behind Maxwell, tall and shadowed in the morning light. He waited without speaking as Maxwell summoned a fire, loading it with enough power to burn through the wet wood and then some. Finally, with a shout of effort, he launched it at the miserable little shack.

The fireball exploded, a wash of heat and humid air. The cabin burned hard and hot, the roof collapsing rapidly, hot embers falling like leaves. They all stood about a little while longer, Varric reaching up to grip Cole and Maxwell’s elbows in silent sympathy. And then they moved on.

It might have been Maxwell’s imagination, but he thought he saw the undead gathering in the foggy distance. Still and shambling wraiths in the wavering, watery silence. Not attacking, for once. Just standing. Just watching them pass.

~

Cole was quiet for the rest of the mission. Once they reached the next signal fire, the rest of the brightened, their maps indicating that they would be reaching the Avvar camp soon. The sight of the ruined castle walls left Maxwell exhaling hard in relief.

The found the soldiers, mostly unharmed. The men and women were joyful at the sight of them, and made a point of shaking all their hands, or clapping them on the arm or shoulder, evacuating hastily as they watched for enemy Avvar. They thanked all of them except, of course, for Cole, whom they couldn’t see.

Maxwell watched him, wondering if he was bothered – _he_ was bothered, on Cole’s behalf – but the young man seemed not to notice. He still hadn’t snapped out of whatever had gripped him the previous night in the cabin, his shoulders remaining hunched, his voice muted. When he fought, however, against the undead or the Avvar chieftain’s son, it was with brutal efficiency. He did not seem disturbed by the carnage, nor invigorated by victory; his gaze was blank and unfeeling, suggesting bleak futility.

~

The long trip back to Haven, they all tried to engage Cole in conversation. Solas, with idle chats about the Fade, saw little success. Varric, sharing stories of the sort that usually left Cole fascinated, was almost completely ignored. Even the Bull tried, asking Cole about his daggers and where he’d learned to fight.

Maxwell was more hesitant. He made a point to stay near the younger man, keeping pace as they had during their walk around Haven. He spoke with him as needed, offering him his waterskin, making sure his clothes were warm and dry, anything he could think of. He wasn’t sure if Cole appreciated it or not, but he made no effort to move away.

He wasn’t sure if his silence was helping, or if It was actively harmful. He hoped the younger man knew that he wanted to help. He hoped it would be enough.

~

Back at Haven, the missing soldiers were reunited with their friends among the troops. Their new agent, a hulking Avvar who’d spent most of the journey discussing elk stew recipes, was drawn off to speak with Josephine, who seemed only mildly nonplussed.

Maxwell let himself relax for the first time in over a week. Every time he set out on a mission like this, he was still terrified, convinced he would mess something up, get someone killed; every time a mission concluded, he felt a little more hopeful, a bit more confident in himself. A bit more certain that he was on the right path.

He visited with everyone, confirmed with Ser Barris that he was ready to make an attempt on the Breach, and then realized he hadn’t seen Cole since he returned. In fact . . . he paused, heart giving a sick lurch. Had he seen him since leaving the Fallow Mire? The last thing he remembered was falling asleep beside him in the dismal little cabin – had he even been there the next morning? What if he had slipped away?

Suddenly panicked, he headed for the gates, where Cole usually lingered to watch the pilgrims. A brief, frantic glance did not reveal any blond heads or giant hats. He went to Solas’ cabin next, but found it empty when he went inside. Of all the times for him to wander off—

“I’m here,” Cole’s voice said.

Maxwell spun, startled, sparks leaping from his right hand. He flexed it nervously, willing the nervous tingle of energy away. “Cole!”

Cole tilted his head. He was sitting on Solas’ desk, one leg drawn up, undisturbed by the fact that he was leaving muddy footprints on the polished surface. “You were looking for me.”

“Yes! I—“ Maxwell grabbed his shoulders, relieved to see him. “I haven’t talked to you since – since the last mission,” he said, fumbling an attempt to cover up his sudden confusion. Why did he have a memory of Cole telling the Bull that he went where the knives needed him?

He was powerfully ashamed of himself. How could he have ignored Cole? After he had been so distressed?

“You shouldn’t feel bad,” Cole said, in his soft, soothing away. “Everyone forgets me. You’ve remembered me longer than most.” He paused, looking down at his hands, spindly fingers tangling with one other. “I was very quiet. That’s probably why you forgot.”

If he forgot about Cole in battle, could he hit him with a spell? Horrifying thought. “Cole, I – I shouldn’t have let that happen. How could I _let_ that happen?” Frustrated, Maxwell raked a hand through his hair. “You should have said something to me. You shouldn’t have—“ Maxwell thought of how that sounded, and sighed, guilty all over again. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I didn’t mean to accuse you of . . . anything. It’s not your fault. I shouldn’t have ignored you.”

Cole was sitting still, listening to him stammer and ramble incoherently, with a slightly blank expression to his face. “But you didn’t,” he said. “Not at all. You just forgot. I said you shouldn’t feel bad.”

“I know. I know you did, but. . . .” Maxwell squeezed his shoulders and then let him go, trying to rub away the crease he could feel on his forehead. He was starting to think – Cole _had_ been with them, hadn’t he? All the way to Haven? The dual, overlapping memories made his head ache. “I feel bad anyway.”

“Why?” Cole tilted his head. “Everyone forgets me. It’s natural. I don’t belong here.”

Maxwell stared at him. “You’re my friend, Cole,” he reminded the younger man. Between the hat and his hair, he couldn’t see his face well, couldn’t tell what he was thinking or feeling. He hoped he was listening. If not with his ears, then the ability that let him see into people’s minds: _you are my friend, you are always my friend._ “It’s not natural for me to forget you. Not ever. For any reason.”

Cole blinked at him, slow and mournful, just once. “Everyone forgets me,” he said again, voice briefly thick with sadness. “It’s only a matter of time.”

Maxwell’s lips thinned in determination. How to turn this around, how to persuade him. . . . “Well, I won’t,” he finally snapped. Cole blinked at him again, a bit taken aback; Maxwell gently tugged him off the desk, forcing him to stand in front of him, face-to-face, no more hiding away. “I won’t, and neither will the rest of us. But you have to – you have to talk to us, Cole. Your ability. . . . We don’t _want_ to forget you. We don’t want to _lose_ you. You have to help us with that.”

Cole turned from side-to-side, a fretful little gesture. Maxwell waited, watching him, trying to guess what was going on in his mind. Trying to understand. He thought of the little elven girl and her sad death, Cole’s panicky distress and how it ached like an old wound to the chest.

“I didn’t,” Cole started, halting. After a quick glance to confirm that Maxwell was still listening, he continued. “I didn’t want to be a burden.”

Maxwell swallowed hard. “You’re not a burden, Cole.”

“I hurt you. My hurt . . . hurt you. That’s not what . . . that’s not what I’m supposed to do.” He paused and fidgeted again. “I’m supposed to help, not hurt.”

Maxwell took a moment to untangle what he’d said “Cole. . . .” he started carefully, thinking it through. “As a spirit, you had a single purpose. Right?”

“Help the helpless,” Cole confirmed, easy as breathing. “Kill the killers.” Then he frowned. “No,” he contradicted himself, “it wasn’t that before. It was just help. Help everyone. Even the killers?” He looked thoughtful, and troubled, and then nodded once, to himself.

Maxwell smiled a little. “Yeah,” he agreed. “But humans . . . no, that’s not what I want to say.” He paused, frustrated. “It’s just – Cole, I think the hurt of others is _supposed_ to hurt us. We’re not spirits. We can’t hear thoughts and, and . . . sweep in and scoop them out. Hurting like that is how we hear each other.” He rubbed his forehead again. “I’m not sure that made sense?”

“I’m not sure either,” Cole admitted, watching him closely. Maxwell laughed. Sometimes he thought Cole had more of a sense of humor than he let on. “But . . . I think I understand. You hurt when I hurt, so to help you, I have to . . . tell you when it hurts?”

“Right.” Maxwell tipped his head back and forth, gripping Cole’s shoulder again. “Something like that. It’s a start.”

Cole stared down at his hands again, and looked like he was gathering his strength. Somehow, Maxwell knew what was coming, and tightened his grip, waiting for Cole to begin. When he did, the corners of his mouth were turned firmly down, trembling a bit. “It hurt, to be there.”

What could possibly be said to that?

“I know,” Maxwell murmured. He turned to lean his shoulder against the nearby wall, and he followed suit, the two of them facing one another. He hoped that, if Solas came back, he wouldn’t mind them talking in his cabin. “It hurt me, too, I guess.” He thought of Cole’s outburst. “But it’s not the same, is it?”

Cole shook his head, hair flopping over his nose. “When I was . . . before I knew I was. . . .” He made a frustrated noise. “I don’t know how to explain.”

Maxwell thought of his previous rambling. “I know the feeling,” he said ruefully. Cole smiled, a tiny bit. “Take your time.”

But Cole seemed determined to push himself. “Once I . . . hid from someone. A monster with hungry fists. His shoulders blocked the light of the sun. And once . . . once I died. Alone in the dark, a belly full of knives, hot and cold, seeing things that weren’t there.” He glanced through his fringe at Maxwell, evidently reading his poorly concealed horror, and added, “Except I didn’t. It wasn’t really me, any of it. But I thought it was.” He sighed again, frustrated.

“You died,” Maxwell said, deciding just to accept it for now. He would wonder how later. “Like she did. The little girl.”

“Alone, all alone in the dark. It was the only place she felt safe. The only place where they couldn’t get her.”

Maxwell’s skin prickled with a sudden chill. “The demons?”

“Not demons. Not real demons. Other people. But I guess they can be demons, too. Can’t they?”

Maxwell didn’t know how to respond.

“They liked to pinch, to kick. She ate on the floor, a bowl of slop and dirty water.” Maxwell looked away, not sure which was worse – the pictures that Cole’s words summoned, or the raw pain in his voice. “She had to hide, from the neighbors. They weren’t really allowed to have slaves. But they liked it too much to let her go. The adults, they liked being in power, liked being bigger, liked how she looked and how she cried. Liked hurting her. And the children did, too. Eventually.”

Maxwell closed his eyes.

“There’s no point in being sad,” Cole said, his little sliver of expression powerfully unhappy. Maxwell could only look up at him, listening with all his heart. “Not for her, or for me. Or . . . for him. It’s all done and gone. But I’m alive, and I can . . . I can still help. I shouldn’t be sad.”

Maxwell gave in and wrapped him in a hug. Cole seemed surprised for a moment, and then returned the embrace, sharp, bony hands tightening against his back.

“You should be sad if you need to,” Maxwell said, words tense against the younger man’s bony shoulder. He wished he had something better, more powerful to say. “And then you tell us, your friends, and we’ll help you stop being sad.” He paused, thinking that over. “That’s how we help each other. That’s how humans do it.”

“I don’t want to be sad anymore,” Cole rasped. “It’s easier to help others. I don’t know how to help myself.”

Maxwell murmured assent. Did anyone?

After a while, Cole relaxed a bit, and Maxwell let him go. Aside from a few sniffles, he hadn’t wept; Maxwell wasn’t sure if that was better or worse. _Could_ he weep, former spirit that he was? As for himself, he felt heavy all over, gut aching, back tense.

They looked at one another in silence, and then a thought occurred. “Cole,” he said, “have you talked to Varric? Since the Fallow Mire?”

Cole shook his head silently.

“You remember the wriggly kittens?”

Cole’s brow furrowed. “The . . . oh! Yes, I remember.” He brightened a bit, the first hint of lightening that Maxwell had seen on him in days. “The story that isn’t finished yet.”

“Yeah.” Maxwell laughed quietly. “Well, I think he made some progress. Maybe.” Maxwell opened the door, the cold air hitting him in the face. He took a deep breath, clearing his head, and led Cole outside. “And you know how much he loves an audience. Let’s go.”

“Yes,” Cole agreed, following Maxwell down the snowy path. “He says it’s nothing without someone listening.” He paused briefly, head tilting, and then flashed a small, rare smile. “Thank you.”


End file.
